Suspicion Coda: Gift or Curse
by ficscribbler
Summary: Marguerite brings up something Roxton said to Professors Hamilton and Campbell.


**316 Suspicion Coda: Gift or Curse**

Summary: _Marguerite brings up something Roxton said to Professors Hamilton and Campbell._

Disclaimer: _The Lost World does not belong to me. *sigh* It belongs to New Line Television, the Over the Hill Gang, et al, …_

Author's Note: _This fanfiction takes place immediately after the 16__th__ episode in the 3rd season (entitled "Suspicion"). This is not a stand-alone story; it is a continuation of the episode._

_*****_

Dusk was creeping over the jungle canopy as the day drew to a close. Roxton grinned to himself as he stepped off the elevator with an armful of wood for the morning. He could hear Challenger in the kitchen, explaining the importance of sanitary practices in the germ-breeding tropic heat. He and Finn were washing up the dinner dishes, of course. It was a lecture George and Arthur had frequently recited to their younger expedition companions during kitchen duty in their early days trapped here on the Plateau.

He eased his load of split wood and kindling into the wood box and straightened, brushing off his hands as he turned, his gaze going to the chair Marguerite usually favored while engaged in her mending. Hmm. Not there. Too early to retire for the night… no sound of running water from the direction of the shower… A couple steps placed him at the railing that overlooked the lab in the lower level, but a brief perusal revealed no sign of the lovely brunette at her workbench, either. Nor was she over among the ramshackle shelves that housed their collective library.

Since she also hadn't been down in the compound while he'd been fetching wood, that left one likely place. The hunter moved quietly out onto the balcony and followed it around to the far side. He paused and grinned appreciatively when he found her leaning on the rail just beyond the point where the curve of the tree house blurred the sound of George's oft-repeated instructive speech into an indecipherable hum. He'd been right; she'd undertaken a strategic retreat to avoid having to listen yet again to the scientist expounding so cheerfully on the dangers of microscopic organisms. Smart lady. This was probably the only position in the tree house where George's stentorian voice was sufficiently muffled that she could concentrate on anything else.

Marguerite was looking out over the darkening vista, backlit by a lantern setting beside one of the bamboo deck chairs positioned to enjoy the shade during the afternoons, and he could see the inevitable basket of mending at the foot of the seat. Roxton looked from the jumble of material she'd abandoned on the chair, clearly set aside in mid-patch, to his lady's preoccupied posture. Apparently something was troubling her, apart from George's instructive speech. Given their confrontation today with an awakened demon, there could be little doubt what was on her mind.

He hadn't believed Hamilton and Campbell at first. He'd insisted that the idea of a demon that jumped from person to person, inhabiting and using them to its own ends, was too farfetched, even for the Plateau. In retrospect, he could understand why Marguerite had believed the tale right away, and also why she hadn't said so. After all, she'd been a medium and conducted séances even before coming here. She'd used that experience only a few months ago to free Ned from the spirit world, and she'd been possessed by the spirit of a malevolent native named Saros for a brief time during the initial séance. John's verbal disparagement of the story told by the two archeologists must have seemed like a jab at her, too, not just the strangers.

Considering their mounting experience with the paranormal, he shouldn't have been so skeptical about plausibility of the demon story. They seemed to be confronting the supernatural with increasing frequency. Along with their efforts to recue Ned, in the last few months alone they'd escaped from a cursed dirigible, had a run-in with a trickster god, dealt with the visions caused by Jack the Ripper's knife, fought off an attack by witches, resisted Death herself, and had been "killed" at the hands of an insane ghostly composer, of all things – and on top of all that, there was Marguerite's quest to complete the Ouroboros, an artifact which had proven to have all-too-real mystical powers.

With her past and the many figurative demons that seemed to haunt her, running into a genuine evil spirit had probably raised a host of specters from her past, leaving her all knotted up inside. Now might be a good time to demonstrate that he fully intended to make good on his promise that her secrets would be safe with him when she was ready… provided he could convince her to share. The strain between them since Callum took off with her artifact had seemed to ease in the past two days, despite his possibly insensitive remarks about the situation.

She'd exhibited a tremendous amount of trust in him in the face of accusations made by the pair of suspicious professors – he'd never forget his delight at the way she'd slipped her hand into his while they'd been back in Hamilton's camp. By then he'd realized how uneasy she was about the whole situation, and he'd been immeasurably pleased that she'd chosen to trust him rather than accept Hamilton and Campbell's paranoia. It had been a risk to push her as he had when he'd demanded exactly what she believed about him; it wasn't something he could afford to do too often with his skittish lady. All too often, a step forward was followed by two steps back; would she resent his pushing her hard-earned trust if he asked her about whatever was troubling her now? Maybe if he tried a very low-key approach…

He took a breath, braced himself, and took the final steps to join her. "Penny for your thoughts?" he suggested lightly, leaning alongside her so that their shoulders brushed. She didn't pull away, that was good. He waited patiently.

Marguerite slanted him a sideways look up through her thick lashes and then looked away again. She'd already been over and over this in her head without coming to any conclusion. Really, the only way to know would be to ask him, but satisfying her curiosity could so easily rebound on her. Did she want to endanger status quo when things had been going relatively well lately? Then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She straightened and turned, leaning only one elbow on the sturdy rail as she faced him. "You said," she began carefully, her gaze rising to meet his, "Back in that cavern, I mean, when I read the writing on the urn's iron seal, and they questioned it… ," her brow creased and she gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment, then resumed, "You said 'She can read anything.' And then when Campbell said the demon was in me, you said 'Marguerite can speak anything'."

Roxton turned to fully face her, bracing his hip against the rail, trying to mask his curiosity. At least initially, he couldn't see any reason for his simple statement of fact to raise any questions from Marguerite. This was what she'd been so lost in thought about? Why? "Yes, I believe I said something of that sort," he agreed, and waited to see where this was going. She shifted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly uncomfortable, although he couldn't fathom why until she spoke again, her guarded silvery-green gaze searching his face as she carefully framed her question.

"You said it… like it was a normal thing. You just came right out and matter-of-factly said 'She can read anything'… almost like you were proud of me for being able to do such a thing. Then you defended my ability as if it were absurd for them to disbelieve you, as if there were nothing odd about it at all." That part came out in a rush, and since Marguerite could feel her face heating, she hastened on to the heart of the matter. "Roxton, doesn't it bother you that I don't know how or why I can do it?"

He blinked. Of all the things - well, no, given that the source of her linguistic skill troubled her so much, her discovery that this particular mystery didn't worry him at all was bound to puzzle her. Well, this wasn't quite the opportunity he'd been hoping for, but it did involve reassuring her that this was one unknown factor that he fully accepted. Always one to make the most of the chances life handed him, he smiled warmly and said, "No, it doesn't bother me. It's just part of who you are, and that's all I need to know. As long as it's not something that hurts you…" He broke off, frowning in sudden concern. "It doesn't, does it?"

It was her turn to blink. "Doesn't what? Oh, hurt? You mean does the process of understanding other languages physically hurt me?" Her expression softened at his worried nod. "No, John."

He sighed in relief, but then frowned again as the distinction sank in. "It doesn't physically hurt you to do it… but it's hurt you other ways?" It took only a moment for him to connect the thought with a few of her rare comments about her childhood, and guess at the truth. "People have given you a rough time about your gift in the past, haven't they?"

Marguerite looked away, cursing herself for the unnecessary clarification that had slipped out without her notice. How had she forgotten to guard her words? He was far too good at reading between the lines all on his own; he didn't need her tossing out clues to incidents in her past that were no one's business but her own. She shrugged dismissively. "Not for years and years."

Children, then. His jaw clenched and he said gruffly, "Must've made your childhood difficult, having your classmates calling you names for something that probably thrilled your teachers."

His sympathetic words caught her by surprise. She nodded once, and fought a sudden urge to burst into tears under a deluge of memories she'd thought long-buried. Her uncanny ability with languages had led so-called friends and foes alike among her classmates and street-mates to mock her as a "show-off", "teacher's pet", "brownnoser", "toadeater", or "Goody Two-Shoes", among other things, while the adults that crossed her path had labeled her alternately "witch", "freak", "curiosity", "aberration", "sycophant" or "savant", depending on their intentions. It had taken half a dozen years to learn that she'd never be able to satisfy everyone at once and that the only guaranteed safe thing to do was hide her skill from one and all. By then she'd also gained enough savvy to know she had to purge any mention of it from her school records, too, if she was to escape the cycle of discovery and reaction from her peers and caretakers. It had been her first experience with altering official documents. She'd been successful enough that she had no problems at her next school. Since that year, she'd only displayed her linguistic ability when she could reasonably explain it away… until the day she'd read the inscription on that tomb in the first year they'd been stranded here. Much to her relief, aside from Malone's nosiness there'd been no repercussions here, nothing like the complications caused in her childhood.

Abruptly she realized Roxton's keen eyes were still observing her, seeking confirmation of his insight about other children's reaction to her mastery of languages in school. Really, he could be so clueless, so ridiculously innocent of the evil in the world. She permitted herself a tight, bitter smile, wishing she could claim the same naivety. "Not only classmates, Roxton," she said sadly.

He'd seen the sheen of tears she held back, heard the heartbreak that lay so near the surface in the huskiness of her low voice, and he tilted his head, not daring to voice his question lest she clam up. He had a feeling she hadn't talked to anyone else about this, and based on the shadows in her gray-green orbs, she probably should.

She didn't look at him, but seemed to see his quirked brow with her usual peripheral awareness. He wasn't demanding answers, and, oddly, she found herself wanting to tell him merely because he hadn't insisted. Well, it would serve to segue into what she wanted to talk to him about, so why not? It was relatively harmless as secrets went, and enlightening him was a small price to pay as thanks for his patience and genuine interest.

Quickly marshalling her thoughts, she explained wryly, "Not every teacher or adult finds out about a child that can read and speak ancient Latin, Greek or Egyptian and only wants to teach the child more. There are those who see that child as an oddity that can be displayed in private or public showcases. Some adults may realize they can profit from translating an obscure ancient manuscript that's baffled scholars for centuries. And then there are those that see it as sourced in devilry, and do their best to… drive it out. Understanding foreign tongues was more of a curse than a gift back then, before I learned to keep it to myself."

His eyes had widened as she spoke. That adults might have taken advantage of her in such a manner had never occurred to him when he'd imagined her childhood. He'd envisioned her challenges coming from her peers, not her caretakers. "Where was your adoptive family when this was going on?! The administrators of your school?!" he demanded indignantly.

Marguerite smiled without humor. "As I've told you before, I didn't have much of a childhood. When a child is… different, for want of a better word… no one trusts her word about someone taking her from the dormitory after lights out, or worries about whether discipline was applied excessively. There was no one to care, Roxton."

Appalled, he sputtered, "That's outrageous! They should be drawn and quartered for abusing you like that!" It was no wonder that she'd grown distrustful of others and accustomed herself to keeping her own counsel.

Oddly comforted by his irate condemnation of those long ago betrayals, she blinked back a new surge of unshed tears and cast another sidelong look up at him with a dismissive shrug. "It's in the past. The point is… Well, until we all ended up stranded here, no one's really been aware of this thing with the languages since way back then. Honestly, it's been a long time since it's been a problem." She rested one hand on his still-tense forearm. "Really, John."

He didn't derive much comfort from her words. It wasn't right that she'd had to hide something that was an innate part of her. Still frowning, he said as much, and added, "And you were right when you said you thought I sounded like I was proud of your gift: It's a remarkable talent, you use it well, and I _am_ proud of you." Someone should have told her this long, long ago.

She wrinkled her nose. He would remember that she'd said that! "That's all well and good, but doesn't it…" She hesitated, moistened her lips a little nervously, and hoped she wasn't going to regret pointing this out to him. "Since no one knows the source of my ability to grasp languages that I've never studied, doesn't it make sense that you should be more cautious about trusting me? I mean, it's not that it wasn't nice to hear you announce my ability to those two idiots as if it was a good thing, but practically speaking, we both have sufficient cause to know after three years living on this bloody plateau that the unknown turns out to be a curse more often than it ends up being anything we'd label as a 'gift'."

Ah. Now he understood. He faced her and reached out, turning her with a hand on each slim shoulder, making certain she was meeting his gaze before he said firmly, "No, the mysterious source of your gift doesn't mean we should be leery of you. We're not like those people you knew when you were a child, Marguerite. None of us distrust you or think you're some kind of freak of nature. And no one here wants to profit from your gift – and I'm using that word very deliberately. You have been gifted, not cursed. Look how often your ability to understand the natives or to read messages or warnings has helped us find our way around or enabled you to negotiate for something we needed for our survival – or just to make life more comfortable here – or outright saved our lives," he pointed out with one of his lopsided grins. "We're the better for having you and your gift with us."

She regarded him thoughtfully.

"What?" he prodded, and when her gaze skittered away he suggested keenly, "You're worried that because you don't know the how and why behind it, it could come back to haunt you or us somewhere in the future, maybe catch us off guard and endanger us?"

She met his dark green eyes again, surprised, then smiled ruefully and admitted, "That's pretty much it in a nutshell." She hadn't thought he believed her when she'd told him that she'd kept her secrets to protect him and the others. But it appeared he remembered the admission she'd made amidst her grunts of effort while maneuvering that old dinosaur bone into place across the chasm in her effort to save his life after the rock bridge collapsed in the cave where they'd found the other half of the Ouroboros. "This thing you're calling a gift could end up being every bit as dangerous as Callum's arrival."

He rubbed his thumbs soothingly along her tense shoulders. "Well, even if it does, we'll all face whatever happens together. If and when that day comes, Marguerite, I'll be right here, and so will the others. You can count on us. Just for the record, I'm of the opinion that your _gift_," he emphasized the word again, "is ultimately going to prove to be a boon, not a bane."

She wasn't so sure, but at his confident assertion, she set aside her unrest about her linguistic ability, and summoned a smile for him. Whatever her doubts about her abilities, there was no question that Lord John Roxton's acceptance of and unexpected pride in her skill was a rare gift in itself. _"She can read anything."_ _"I told you before; Marguerite can speak anything!"_ John probably had no idea of the significance of his words, how much his confident phrases meant to her. He'd given her memories she would relive with pleasure for years to come. "Have I mentioned lately what an adorable man you are?"

As she'd intended, her words took him straight back to two mornings ago when they'd climbed down from that tree where they'd spent an uncomfortable night avoiding a large herd of raptors. Another grin flashed across his face when she reached up to cup his cheek, as she'd done before they'd been interrupted by the flurry of gunfire that day. "Hmm; your words do have a familiar ring to them," her suitor admitted. He glanced pointedly around, checking for any anomaly that might hinder the moment, but it looked clear. He lofted a dark brow at her. "Dare we?" he joked.

Her smile was sultry seductress personified, and the husky note in her voice sent his heart rate soaring as she drawled, "Oh, I'm very daring."

John bent his head to accept the proffered kiss, meeting her lips with tender passion that quickly deepened in a more heated direction. He drew Marguerite closer, and felt her arms wrap around him; her mouth opened to his at the prompting of his tongue and she moaned her approval when he tugged her body tight to his.

"Help!" Challenger bellowed urgently. "Immediate assistance required!"

The dark-haired couple broke apart, Marguerite's laughter gurgling up alongside John's resigned chuckle. They could already smell the acrid smoke drifting up from the lower level, but Roxton held her still an additional moment to rest his forehead against hers. "Soon, Marguerite, soon," he vowed softly.

Her silver-green eyes twinkling merrily, she retorted, "I'll believe it when I see it!"

"Challenger!" Finn squealed, then her voice rose to a panicked yell. "FIRE! Stuff is burning! Guys! Bring the water buckets! HURRY!"

Before she finished, Roxton and Marguerite were sprinting along the balcony in answer to their housemates' calls.

Just another day in paradise.

*****


End file.
